


Art

by bugsuit



Series: 100 Prompts - Archer [4]
Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Banter, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugsuit/pseuds/bugsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray talks Archer through a mission. Mostly an excuse to practice dialogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art

“It’s _art,_ Ray. And it’s _delicate._ If I ‘hurry my ass up’ and wind up smashing something I would _literally never forgive myself_ because this is a god damn gallery of masterpi—” Archer’s angry voice cut off and a worrying silence swelled in its wake. For a moment, there was nothing on the line but the faint shuffle of movement, and then even that went still.

Ray held his tongue. That was usually a sign that a spy was dealing with the imminent threat of discovery. He carefully adjusted his headset volume and waited.

Archer had apparently been holding his breath, because the audio peaked and hissed as he let it out straight into the microphone and it absolutely _killed_ Ray’s eardrums. _Asshole._

“Guard walked past,” he whispered finally. “Stupid idiot didn’t see me. Am I still coming in clear?”

“Roger.” Ray replied quietly, trying to keep some semblance of professionality in the mix. “What do you need?”

“There’s _four._ Which one do I grab?”

Ray’s brow creased, his eyes studying the location marker on the main screen as if that might explain what the hell Archer meant.

“What do you mean, there’s four?”

On the other end of the line, suspended a handful of inches over the floor with his limbs hooked over a wire, Archer gave an angry growl.

“There are four paintings, Ray, what do you think I mean?”

Ray shuffled through the papers littering the tracking console, an odd feeling settling in his gut. “Are ya sure?”

“Ray!”

“Okay, okay! Just – hang tight a minute, I’m looking!”

In truth, Ray wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He’d read all of the intel in full already, and he knew there weren’t supposed to be four of the damn things. This was supposed to be a simple security test job, one of those shitty missions straight from Malory Archer’s dubious web of connections that would feed just as dubiously back into the ISIS coffers. God, he hated these.

“I am hanging tighter than ever before,” Archer hissed, “seeing as whoever was in charge of buying harnesses apparently saw fit to get the cheap ones that _chafe your crotch._ I need an answer before my _balls fall off_ and endanger the mission.”

Ray made a dubious noise and kept flicking through the print-outs.

“Was that _doubt?_ Are you doubting their ability to trigger an alarm, Ray? Because it’s a very real possibility. All of the palace guards are going to run in here in thirty seconds wondering why two cannonballs just fell off a display. It’s a pretty awkward situation to be in, _Gilette,_ so if you could hurry the hell up—“

“Keep your goddamn pants on, I’m doin’ everything I can!” He tossed a stack of papers roughly out of his way, acknowledging there wasn’t going to be a useful answer anywhere in there, and pinched the ridge of his nose. “Listen. I don’t have any intel on there bein’ four, but only one of those can be the original-“

“Duh!”

“-so you’re just gonna have to trust my judgement on this one.”

“Trust _you?”_ Archer wasn’t exactly masking his amusement. “Ray, this is _art._ All you have in your apartment is… Asian potato stamps.”

“It’s _Japanese_ _brush painting!”_ Ray snapped, and immediately regretted it. Getting a rise out of people was Archer’s whole thing, and he hated how easy it was to fall for it even if you knew his game plan. He took a deep breath. “Just – see if you can turn ‘em around, and then tell me what you see.”

Archer made an indignant noise, probably meaning something along the lines of _this is bullshit_ or perhaps _why the hell are we still doing these shitty commission jobs_ – or more likely both. He’d otherwise gone quiet, though, which meant he was at least doing as he was told.

“I’m holding two. They’re just blank.” He’d unclipped from the wire and carefully manoeuvred through a criss-cross of beams, but it had put him out in the open. “I have about a minute before the guard circles back and I have to duck back on the wire again. What am I looking for? And can’t I just send you a video so you can look instead?”

“I doubt a video’d be high-res enough. It’s gonna be a real small detail, so get out a pen light and get in close.” Either this was going to net him a bonus (haha, _right_ ) or Archer would come back with a fake. Win-win. “You’re looking for a… a scuff,” he hazarded. “Some wear-and-tear, right in Marylin’s forehead. On the back.”

“A scuff,” Archer repeated. “I’m looking for a scuff mark. That’s good to know, Ray. I’m glad it’s something so specific, because I don’t know what I’d do if it was something _incredibly generic and non-differentiating!”_

“Ugh! The original was shot, Archer! _With a gun._ If it’s the right one, you’re gonna find a little rough patch right on the forehead where the canvas was fixed. Easier to see on the back where you can see the fibres around it, ‘cause they’re all gonna have a pale spot on the front if they’re good copies. Now get in there and tell me—“

“Who would shoot a painting?”

A nonplussed Archer was a much easier asshole to deal with than an angry Archer, so Ray committed himself to keeping him talking. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think that chatting on the job kept the man calm – but that wasn’t who Archer was.

“Dorothy Podber,” he replied simply, like he was giving a kid an art lesson. “Warhol had ‘em all racked up in storage, an’ she asked if she could shoot ‘em. He only realised she didn’t mean with a camera when she pulled a gun out of her purse.”

This was met with a long silence, and Ray fidgeted with his headset again. Had the line dropped?

“Archer, do you read me?”

“Yeah, just – busy. Also, it sounds like someone I know.” He paused for effect, and Ray groaned inwardly. “An artsy douchebag who keeps her gun in a purse, Ray. Do you get-”

_“Did you find the painting?”_ Someday he was going to strangle Sterling Archer, and his Gorgon mother would be next.

“Ray, I found the original the moment you said there was a rough patch, I’m not _blind._ It’s all rolled up in my bag, safe and sound. Untwist your frilly undergarments.” Archer carefully unclipped his harness from the line and carefully bent back up onto his own two feet. _As expected from the limbo champion of the Fourth of Ju-Luau._ “What I _don’t_ get is how you know so much about this stupid painting. There was nothing in the intel about a purse-shooting, or its resulting… _fibre distress.”_ He quickly braced against the wall by the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps to fade.

Ray’s voice cut in a little too sharply over the silence, and he fumbled with his earpiece to lower the volume. “I took art classes. For your information, one of my projects was on influential LGBT artists.”

“Wait,” Archer muttered, “Andy Warhol’s _gay?”_

“I – yes, Archer, Warhol was gay. I thought you’d be more surprised at me taking art, actually.”

“No, actually, I’m not surprised,” Archer retorted, and ducked around a corner. A long scurry to the window, and he’d be out. It actually hadn’t been that hard to break into, for a god damn _palace._ “I’ve seen you draw, Ray, it’s one of your many annoying… _habits._ I was gonna say talents, but that implies I want to congratulate you.”

Ray bristled. “Well, I-! …Wait. Really?” A beat. “When’d you see me draw?”

“Well, there was that time a snake bit my asshole and you captured its likeness, and probably its _soul,_ onto paper through what I can only assume was black magic.” He eased the window back open, climbed out, and quietly shut it behind him. The night air was a welcome reprieve. Somewhere along the way he’d gotten a little sweaty. “Look, as great as your artistic talents may be, I doubt anyone at ISIS wants to hear about them any more than I do, so this topic is ending now.”

Ray didn’t seem quite sure what to say to that, but he eventually went with, “Thank you, Archer. I’ll take that as a compliment.” Which was, obviously, unacceptable as answers went. “Also, no. Just me today.”

“Oh.” He’d sort of forgotten how understaffed they were lately. The few who were left were picking up kind of a lot of slack. “Well, still don’t,” he chided, and he heard Ray snicker. “Because it wasn’t a compliment. You shouldn’t even _be_ drawing on your paperwork, you should keep your mind focused on your job, like a professional – oh, _shit!”_

A flashlight beam swept up from the gravel path below. He dropped flat against the roof, landing hard on his hip, and set his teeth to keep himself quiet.

“Archer, what’s your status?”

“Still here, dummy. Stop distracting me with wishful thinking about your failed art school, and start coming up with a plan to get me out of here. All the other asshole guards came out to smoke in the courtyard, because _apparently_ no one taught them basic break scheduling 101.” Yeah, he was really starting to sweat. He’d already considered telling Ray he was hungover before he started the mission, but the banter was so far providing a welcome distraction and Archer was in no mood to turn that on its head. God, the man could nag.

“I didn’t _fail art school._ It was night classes,” Ray insisted, “and anyway, let’s see you do better.”

“Well, that’s the thing, I can’t. It wouldn’t be a fair contest. Like trying to out-gay you – you’d beat me in a second.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that…” he mused, and then a second later the teasing tone dropped and he gave a soft laugh. “…Yeah, you’re right. I’d do it with my _limp wrists_ tied behind my back, Mr. Fragile Masculinity. Okay – try going along the roof. If that many guards are down on the ground floor, the outer side’s probably a safe bet.”

“Obviously I was going to try that. Also, shut up, it’s not fragile.”

Ray smirked into the mouthpiece.

Halfway along the wall, Archer groaned. “Stop whatever face you’re pulling and… pull your head out from between your ass cheeks. I can feel the smugness leeching through the radio waves.”

The man chose to make himself useful instead of dignify that with a response. “O-kay. The building’s pretty well-decorated, so there should be lots of handholds no matter which side you pick. Just look before you bust out the parkour.”

“Ray,” Archer said suddenly, his voice straining as he eased himself down the outer side of the building, “would you teach me to draw?”

His feet found a window ledge, and on his way down to the next handhold he thanked his lucky stars (well, his _amazing_ ninja skills) that there wasn’t anyone watching him from inside the room. His head was kind of pounding with all the moving around and climbing, and the harness was still _way_ too tight. All of this added up to a pretty big grey area as to how he’d react to anyone who made this mission any more inconvenient.

Ray hummed thoughtfully. “Your tone says you’re seriously asking, but your _everything else_ says you’re never genuine about wanting to learn anything, sooo...”

“I’m seriously asking,” Archer droned, rolling his eyes. “With all the honesty I have. Which isn’t a lot, so… if I run out during this conversation, expect me to tell nothing but lies for the rest of the week.”

“Why would _you_ wanna learn art?” Archer pictured Ray, all sarky and challenging with his hands on his hips. It was was a brilliant mental image for getting pissed at, and that was good. Anger gave him energy, and energy countered some of the hangover.

“Maybe I want to expand my horizons, assdouche!” He finally dropped the last gut-lurching distance to the ground, his feet crunching on gravel. Archer quickly ran to the shelter of a tree, keeping an eye on the apparently infinite guard populace. This was supposed to be a challenge, not a god damn gauntlet. “You forget, Gilette, that I’m actually incredibly well-read and also, a movie connoisseur, and _also,_ an aficionado of fine liquor. Oh, and a totally kickass secret agent! I have a _butler,_ Ray. It’s important that I round myself out with some classy shit once in a while.”

“Classy as it may be, I’m not an art teacher. But if you want something to show off to the ladies that badly, I’ll draw you up a less taint-bitey snake for you to tattoo on your body as an equally classy tramp stamp.”

“How kickass are we talking?” A flashlight flickered on nearby, and slowly scanned the tree he’d strategically placed between himself and the palace. Who the hell _wasn’t_ on a smoke break right now?

“A big-ass cobra with daggers for teeth. Pay me an extra ten bucks and I’ll add a big, muscly arm with a ‘MOM’ heart on one side.”

“ _Ha ha,_ Ray, you’re a real comedian. I don’t want a tattoo of a tattoo, you idiot! It’ll just end up going all the way down like some horrible fractal ouroboros.” Archer waited for the flashlight to click off, and hot-footed it out towards the street. “Ow, _shit,_ my hip.”

“Relax and shut your dickhole. You’re out of there, right?” Ray vacantly shuffled the intel papers into a not-so-neat pile, and reached under the console until his fingertips brushed the cool neck of a glass bottle. “How’s the great escape going?”

“Chafey. Don’t run in these harnesses. I’m serious. Should’ve taken it off before I got off the roof.” Archer huffed loudly and slowed to a walk, following the street and scanning for a dim enough alley to duck into and make himself look more presentable. “Also, stop thinking about me in a tight harness.”

“Not thinkin’ about your bondaged crotch, Archer.” The glass clinked. “Tight and chafey though it may be.”

“Is that wine?” Of course he’d hear it. His alcoholic spidey-senses must be ringing right now. “Are you drinking wine, Ray?”

“The mission’s over!” Ray snapped defensively. “Which begs the question, why are we still talkin’ to each other?”

“Yeah,” Archer replied, “that’s a very good question. I actually still have to take off all my spy gear – I look guiltier than Pam after she’s updated her blog. Also, now my –” pause “– _dark black_ turtleneck smells like my hangover. So. Hanging up now.”

“Uh-?”

The line went dead. Ray stared up at the blinking “call ended” sign on the control screen, and blinked disinterestedly when it suddenly changed to “connection lost”. Somewhere, he decided, Archer had just registered that he’d accidentally doled out a compliment and promptly crushed the earpiece under his heel.

Ray wasn’t exactly shocked. Honestly, he was more surprised it had gone on for as long as it had. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed talking to Archer, _ever,_ especially not when he was bitchy and hung over, but sometimes he hated the prick a little less when he accidentally bared little bits of his soul like that.

Because Archer _was_ well-read, and Archer _was_ actually a pretty good spy when he wasn’t completely plastered and draped over the nearest pair of tits like a discarded throw-rug. And, also, Ray thought, he _had_ very very _briefly_ been thinking about Archer’s harness crotch. It was hardly his fault they were made to frame your junk.

He sank into a chair and cast a lazy glance around the empty ISIS control room, and then put his feet up on the console. Sooner or later Archer would call back from a hotel room or pay-phone, probably when he realised he’d lost his friggin’ flight schedule or something, and someone was going to have to be here to sort his shit for him yet again.

Ray raised his glass to his lips and muttered a half-assed toast to budget cuts and overtime, and then took a sip. His free hand found a pen, slid the top paper off the stack towards him, and began doodling a snake in the margin.

“With a big ol’ flexy arm,” he mumbled, smirking, and added it in.

Maybe if he caught Archer when he was _really_ shitfaced, he could convince him to actually get the tattoo.

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't really know what I'm doing or if it's even passable but whoo here is another one. I actually did a little research on this one, so the thing about the art is just barely passable, but in the end I decided on just shoehorning in a building that might once have been inspired by the Palazzo Reale in Milan but... isn't, because trying to make sense of the layout with Google Images alone was giving me a headache. So it's some unnamed palace thing instead. Just go with it, I whisper, caressing your ear with a slip of paper that says 'why isn't there more krayger on this site'.
> 
> Also, I'm probably going to slow down on these for a while, since the section is mega slow and I don't want to fill it all up with my own crap. Honestly I might even re-order them all into one multichaptered fic so that they aren't taking up tons of space. We'll see where the bantz take me.


End file.
